The Consequence of Being Liked
by shan14
Summary: He holds his word, for the most part. Spoilers up till the end of season 13


_Prologue_

"Alright, I promise I will give you details of at least one family catastrophe per month"  
~ Harry Cunningham: Mind and Body Part 2_  
_

He holds his word, for the most part.

Once a month she learns a little more of his past. From the family tragedies he promised to the lighthearted moments that wash up suddenly. Some days it's barely a memory murmured to her, others comprise of carefully woven tales, over beer and take away, that last long into the night.

She rarely has to remind him, and knows deep down that his stories are helping them both, for occasionally she branches into her own memories, from her childhood in South Africa to her schooling and heartache in England.

They share favourite movies and foods, teachers, first crushes (kisses and times), and occasionally, if she's lucky or he's drunk, he'll relegate hilarious tales of his time at university, how he ended up naked on a beach down south or woke up (again, naked) in the university gardens.

The memories they share are like a carefully guarded secret, and the memories of the sharing are locked away in her heart. She finds no real closeness in the men she sleeps with, hardly enjoys the unavoidable chats that come before night, instead she finds intimacy curled on a lounge with her best friend, crying with laughter as he tries to explain his preoccupation with drunken bareness.

Months have turned to years and there have been times when weeks have gone by in awkward silence. They have fought, heaven knows, and each time it has ended with one of them apologising at the front door. Those nights are sometimes the best, she grows to learn, and Leo has often been baffled by their ability to jump from cold ignorance to torrents of giggles.

There have been times, picked out and held close, when she's sure his presence could make her believe in fairytales. Harry has the unending ability to take her breath away, simply because he is there when the world falls apart.

And then sometime along the journey she realises she loves him, and there's a small, sheltered belief that he may one day feel the same. She treasures this knowledge far from the world, but wears his friendship like a jewel for all to see; his arm slung across her shoulder, hand enclosed with her own.

If someone asked her to present the defining moments in their relationship, she could open the album of memories and pick each one out.

They read:

---

The Conference Kiss, as she terms it, is both an exhilarating and horrible memory. However it is the hours following, between dinner and her front step, which she wraps around herself on cold nights.

His lips are slightly rough, warm, and her whole body tingles afterwards. She feels as if his hands have covered her entirety, as if each slip of skin has been met with his touch, and she trembles for the remainder of the evening, even when they finish their meal and discover the rain has abated.

"Walk?" he asks suddenly, offering her his arm, and she slips her own around it, pushing herself just a little closer than usual. He leads them down a lit path, into the main street of town where a bridge crosses a small river.

Stopping to watch the lights ripple across water, she near whimpers as his arms slip around her from behind. She is leaning against the railing, but suddenly finds herself collapsing backwards to his chest, and the possessive grip of his hands by her hips is the most wonderful feeling.

"When I was seven," he begins, and she realises suddenly it's another of those moments, "I tried to teach myself how to fly."

His voice is light and simple, betrays nothing of the small circular motion of his fingertips, rubbing against the side of her stomach as he slips into a world of memories.

"How?" she asks quietly, and the word is lost as her breath catches and disappears in the fog of night. It is cold, and he tugs her closer as she continues to tremble.

"There was a park near my house, and every afternoon I'd beg my mother to take me there. They had a swing set that was bigger than the one Dad had made in the backyard and I used to terrify my parents by swinging as high as possible. One day I decided that if I jumped off at the top I'd be able to fly right away."

Gasping in surprise she turns quickly in his arms, expecting them to drop, but rather they tighten, pulling her hips to his own. She whimpers, her eyes slither closed, and she has to fight the urge to push him away because of his teasing. She's quite certain nothing more will occur tonight, but the future holds many promises and he's never been shy of winding her up.

"What happened?" she whispers huskily, remembering his story and the strange image of a little Harry flying from the swing set.

His brow creases before his face falls sombre, anticipation hangs as he focus briefly on her lips and despite her knowing that he's going dramatic to make her giggle, she can't help but laugh infectiously when he responds.

"I fell."

Within moments she is giggling helplessly against his chest, face pressed to his neck as he rubs a soothing hand against her back. He too, is laughing helplessly, though after a few moments she finds herself rather entranced by the threshold of his shirt, that magical space between skin she sees everyday and a body she's never laid eyes on.

With his arms still tight around her, hanging low on her hips, she pushes her lips to his throat and sucks gently. His laughter breaks, a groan accompanying his fist gripping her shirt, and she can't help but hum gently against him as he rocks her back and forth.

"You're shivering," she whispers huskily, unendingly proud at his inability to respond.

"Home?" she asks, leaning back to allow him time to calm. She leans up, kisses him on the cheek, before stepping from his grasp, keeping his hand within her own to tug him towards the car park.

Later that evening she awakes to the car pulling up beside her apartment. He graciously runs round to open her door, walking with her towards the gate, and within seconds has her pressed to the metal bars as he kisses her.

It lasts no longer than a second, short and sweet, but is the perfect close to the beginnings of the evening. He presses a kiss to her jaw and cheek before stepping backwards, wishing her sweet dreams and then disappearing into the car.

At that time she had believed in the next day, and even throughout the following drama had clung to the thought that she could excite him so. Nothing had happened, of course, and deep down she knows it had been too soon.

But it doesn't hold off the ghost of him pressed to her when the night is calm and cool like the one of the conference. And sometimes, when she is feeling quite enamoured, she fancies one day it will be more than his ghost too.

---

It is sometime after that evening that she realises he is truly her dearest friend.

"Nikki," he murmurs, and brushes the hair from her face. He has one arm still wrapped around her shoulder, whilst the other grips her hand in his lap, soothing her gently with the rub of his thumb against hers.

"We'll have to go soon," he whispers, and she wonder's why he's so quiet. A tear slips down her cheek unbidden and he bundles her closer, slipping his arm from her shoulder to her waist so that she is near lying in his lap.

It is awkward, and slightly uncomfortable, curled up in the back of the car; her whole body aches with fear and exhaustion, but at this moment she wouldn't have it any other way.

There's a settling in her stomach at the thought of him not disappearing, and now that she's in his arms she's beginning to believe she won't disappear from this earth any time soon, too.

"Tell me a story?" she asks suddenly, one of the few times she has asked, and it startles him a moment to realise she wants to listen to him talk.

"Which one?" he asks, and settles into the leather seat. "Something from when I was young, or now in my old age. There's one from university that involves a stethoscope, a morgue and three bottles of vodka?" he wonders out loud, and quickly questions himself for admitting that.

"Does it involve you naked?" she asks quickly, shuffling slightly to smile at him.

He pauses a moment, blushes deeply at some untold memory, and refuses to comment.

"I'm concerned about the lack of clothing in your youth," she mumbles, and pats his stomach with her spare hand.

"I'm sorry if my youth wasn't up to your standards," he supposes, "but if you don't want a story, I'll be quiet."

Her objection comes just a little too quickly, and the desperation in her voice is just a little too real. "You promised Harry," she whines softly.

"If I remember correctly, I promised to tell you of a family catastrophe once a month, not relegate my med school stories."

"I don't know Harry, you seem to be bare in all of them; that's catastrophic enough."

He almost chokes out laughter as she grins finally, and he can't help the tears that rise unbidden because she's alive, and in his arms, smiling and joking with him.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he quips, and she trembles with giggles.

There's a sudden knock at the window and he has to grip her tight as she jumps, whimpering at the sudden noise. He presses a kiss to her hairline before glancing out the window, nodding as one of the officers indicates they're leaving.

The officer waits a moment, probably expecting Harry to change seats, but instead he wraps a seatbelt around himself and one around Nikki before pulling her just as tight into his arms once more.

He feels rather than sees the content sigh she lets out, and a sensation of calm melts across them both.

---

Post Traumatic Stress, as its name implies, leaves Harry shaking stressfully at arbitrary moments in time.

It is nearly four weeks since the helicopter crash, and his non-picnic outing with Nikki. She wonders, sometimes, if that hadn't been another failed attempt at something more, or merely, as he had told her, his giddy attempts to share a childhood fascination.

She learns much that day, from his heart murmur to his air-headed qualities, and the image of a little Harry Cunningham watching planes fly by is so charming that she can't help but fall for him a little, her hand gripping his tighter as he shares his hidden dreams.

It is four weeks later however, that she learns more than she can imagine, when she discovers him trembling in the corner of the locker room one evening.

"Harry?" she calls loudly, trying to break his trance, yet it takes three simultaneous callings to wake him. When he does glance towards her she is standing close by his side, and he stumbles backwards into the locker with a violent crash.

Still shaking, he blinks rapidly, and Nikki grips his arm tight to steer him towards the benches. Placing him there she sits by his side, taking a hand in her own, as he continues to stay silent.

"Did something happen in there?" she asks, tilting her head towards the cutting room, and Harry shakes his head vigorously, waking himself a little as he does so.

"It was nothing," he tries, but Nikki's grip on his arm is strong, and he remains seated by her in thunderous silence.

Eventually she gives up on any revelations, pulls him to his feet and tells him to be at her place by eight with alcohol. There's no promise that he'll turn up, though they both know he will, not only for the alcohol but the silent healing of her presence. Some days he doesn't know what he'd do without it.

At her place they lounge restfully against the cushions, a fair distance between them, that closes rapidly as whisky is drunk. She's not that bigger fan but it burns almost pleasantly, and pretty soon Harry is staring soulfully into his glass, contemplating the liquid and mumbling sporadically.

"I couldn't get the image of the pilot out of my head," he whispers finally, like a secret, glancing at her with his head leaning back against the lounge.

"That's always been my problem," he muses, "Ever since dad. I get images stuck right there," and at this he pokes himself between the eyes, "And they won't go away. "

He glances to her, brow creased harshly, before sighing. "Does that happen to you, or is it just me and my messed up imagination?"

Nikki, who's never been quite sure just how messed up she is in comparison to the population, is at least assured that between herself and Harry they'd have enough going to keep a psychologist happily employed. She too leans her head against the lounge and sighs.

"I don't know, Harry."

She's slightly less drunk than he is, but can't complain as he wrestles her gently into his arms. He presses his lips to the crown of her head and breathes deeply.

"It's worse when the images are of you," he murmurs. "They never go away, even if sometimes I don't want them too."

She wonder's if he means the majority of times she's been hurt, or the fights they have, perhaps even (and this is a very distant, secret hope), the ones he doesn't want to go are similar to the dreams she has of the kiss, and she feels a flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

"What are the images of me?" she asks, and his answer takes the breath from her body.

"Everything."

---

When Harry marches in through the doors, pulls her flush to his body and kisses her passionately (because really, thats the only way she can describe it) on the cheek, moments after her boyfriend has left the room, she gets the feeling things may be falling out of control.

His arms stays heavy across her shoulders before falling to his side, yet even as they walk towards the office, he bumps solidly into her, pushing his side to hers, invading her personal space, asking questions and making jokes that leave her reeling the rest of the afternoon.

After the incident with Ryan, she almost expects Harry to mount a parade, but instead he watches her silently, bites heavily at his lip to avoid the smirk they both know is there, and choses instead to smile.

"You alright?" he asks simply, and she's to dazed to understand his reaction.

"I don't know," she murmurs.

Months later she runs into Ryan at a scene. Harry's by her side in an instant, not saying a word, merely letting his presence speak, and by the time they're returning to the car she feels a little off balance.

Harry sneaks up behind her, draping an arm casually across her shoulder to press a kiss to her cheek, the similarities in his actions not lost on either of them.

"You know, when I was little all my parents friends had no children, so I'd be stuck sitting with the group of them, and there came a stage when I tried to prove I was older by laughing at all their jokes even when they were terrible."

Nikki smiles softly, can imagine exactly what Harry must have been like, but is a little confused by the relevance.

"That day in the labs, when Ryan told me some joke and you walked in on us laughing?" he asks, jogging her memory.

"I did the same thing."

She grins and he kisses the corner of her mouth.

---

Sometimes the moments are little wisps of time.

After their discussion over bicycle, tricycle, icicle, bombs, he catches her making her way from the office. He has a post mortem to complete, and even though Leo has just assured her that they returned because they were worried, not just because he was hungry, as Harry had quipped, it settles her a little to know that she's not completely losing her mind in being terrified by it all.

Still in his scrubs he grabs her in the hallway, wraps his arm around her waist, and tugs her to his chest.

He is warm, and solid and smells of antiseptic, but she finds herself breathing him in and calming.

He kisses her longingly on the cheek and tells her to get some sleep, running his finger across her chin before smiling and turning back towards the cutting room.

She sleeps a little better that night.

---

Leo's attack is possibly the most harrowing, terrifying experience she can remember, just the thought of the sight of him lying in hospital makes her shake uncontrollably.

Harry is her anchor, holds her pressed to his side, lips to his neck, as the life support is turned off, and hugs her close when they're friend breathes his first, ragged breath.

He leaves soon after, however, caught up in new romance, and despite her teasing and smiles, the thought of his unrequited love for someone else makes her sick to the stomach.

She's always believed, somewhere deep down, since before he promised her the secrets of his soul, that one day his unrequited love would be for her, and that night in the pub, on the bridge, still burns brightly in her mind.

A few weeks later, caught amidst a rather detailed dream, she hears a knock at the door at eleven at night; loud, constant knocks of a person who knows she's inside.

She's cranky when woken, and grips the door tight to stop her slamming it in the face of whoever is there.

It is Harry, however, and she relents a little. It is four weeks since Rebecca disappeared, she's already counselled him through the heartbreak, and Leo's situation is improving. She can hardly think of a reason for his presence other than loneliness, and silently steps back to let him through the door.

"I brought my own alcohol," he informs her huskily, as he unwinds his scarf and jacket. She shakes her head at him and decides she can't be bothered to change from her pyjamas. If the sight of her in merely a long jumper does anything to him than he can bloody well act on it, if not he has no right to complain.

It does affect him, more than she'll ever know, though by two o'clock they're both semi-asleep on the lounge, credits of a film rolling, and his hand is lying on the bare flesh of her thigh. She shifts gently and his hand slips further, she can't help but whimper and he turns to press himself towards her.

She grips his jumper before his hand steals to the back of her waist and then his lips are pressed to hers, hot, and fast until she can hardly breathe.

She whimpers his name against his mouth, before his lips press down to her collarbone, he nips and sucks and when his tongue brushes her skin she trembles violently, pushing him back.

"What are you doing?" she murmurs, and her lips are swollen slightly.

He blinks rapidly, not quite understanding, before stretching back, creating a distance far greater than the lounge.

She's curled herself up, pulling the jumper (which he'd almost pushed off) back around her, and is now watching him breathlessly. He can hardly respond.

"It's too soon, Harry," she murmurs finally. "It's not really you and me, it's the pain of Leo and Rebecca and loneliness."

He wants to tell her it's exactly them; fire and passion and knowing the other inside out, but she's so caught up in defences he knows any chance of convincing her will not come tonight. But she responded, and deep down they both know this breaks all the excuses of platonic friendship they could build around the kiss years earlier.

She walks him to the front door and he resists the urge to press her to the wall. He does stand as close as she'll let him, however, and pushes his thigh against her own with one hand anchored to her hip.

She's breathing heavily and he knows how much of a bastard he is in that exact moment, pushing her towards something she clearly isn't ready for.

"When I was younger," he begins, and she almost rolls her eyes. Surely he doesn't have a story to go along with this night. "I met a girl. Well, rather, she stole my desk and never left."

He pauses, and she feels hot tears trickle down her cheeks.

"I really want her," he whispers roughly, and in moments is gone.

---

This year she believes she ages dramatically, if not in birthdays than in experience.

Arguing with Harry is possibly the worst thing on earth, and in the months that Leo is recovering they go through periods of intense awkwardness and intense closeness, times when she can't stand the sight of him and others where they spend up to a week without leaving each other's sight; Harry becomes a regular crasher of her lounge and it's a comfort having him close.

It's also been months since his midnight admission, and though it simmers below the surface, nothing is ever spoken.

When he falls to pieces, in the weeks following Leo's return, she once more is treated to a look into the Cunningham world. Harry, it seems, also learns more of the Cunningham tragedies, and the association his mother makes between he and his father nearly destroys him.

They have Chinese take out one evening, curled up at his place, and the movie he decides to watch is so ridiculous she immediately ignores it.

"You won't understand this one," he murmurs to her, and grins as she hits him in the arm.

"You just want to show off by explaining it," she grumbles in return, and he doesn't even make a show of disagreeing.

"Harry," she starts suddenly, and he can tell by her tone that she's heading for serious. "Last week, when we were talking about turning into our parents, you said 'if my children', not 'if I have children'. Do you think I will?"

Her head is lying against his shoulder; he can hardly make out her face, so instead he shrugs, smiling as she tuts in annoyance at having her head moved.

"I'm serious, have you thought about what will happen if one of us settles down?" she asks.

If one of us settles down without the other, is the subtext, and in truth the thought is so terrifying that he pushes it away. She's right though, he has been pondering it, ever since Ryan really, nearly two years previous.

His whole world is built upon her friendship, her giggles and smiles and hugs and support. That would all but disappear if she found another man.

"I don't really want to think about it," he murmurs truthfully, and she glances up in shock. She has him thinking, however, and the parallels are horrible.

"Do you think my mum thought she'd married the wrong man?" he ponders. "Maybe that's why she had the affair. Maybe she realised the person she'd married wasn't the one she loved."

"She told you she loved your father," answers Nikki, leaning closer to Harry's curled up frame.

"She told me that. But I don't know how she felt."

He pauses a moment, and thinks what he'd do if he found himself in a similar situation.

"Think about it though," he murmurs, and can barely catch her eye. "What if one of us got married even if we loved someone else. Wouldn't you want to be with the person who made you happy?"

She doesn't know how to answer.

---

Another moment, recorded in her mind, each detail sculpted to perfection for her to ponder and relive, is the night following the campus hostage crisis.

If anyone had dared enter, some spirit wandering the night's sky, they would have seen Harry sleeping peacefully, shock of dark hair curled across his forehead and lying haphazardly on the pillow. Pressed to his front, barely indecipherable from his being as if they had melted together, is her figure, breathing slowly, as her legs tangle between his own. Her arms are splayed across his chest; one curled beneath his t-shirt on his stomach, the other resting a top his heart. His own hands are splayed possessively across her back, one curling around her hip to hug her tighter.

His lips are pressed to her hairline, and her own are against his neck, resting above his steady beating pulse.

It is quiet, still, and perfect, and neither one of them feel awkward in the morning, save for the glances that speak of a familiarity they both want every day, not just post-crisis.

The next night is similar, and the one after that; not a word is spoken about it and for a while Nikki feels as if she is floating in the abyss, her soul is so invested in this man yet nothing is happening, its like a stalemate that will never be broken as long as they are both so concentrated on denial.

But on the fourth morning he has disappeared, and she feels soft tears roll down her cheeks.

---

Months later, as they head to South Africa, she feels the giddy excitement that home always manages to bring, yet at the same time a dreadful sickness. She needs some closure, needs something steady, and Harry seems so far from this world that she's never sure if they'll settle, even if she loves him.

It is here that she meets Anton and Harry's world falls apart.

He discovers, whilst pulling coins from behind children's ears and cooking dinner with the clatter of homework in the background, that this is the world he longs to inhabit. Where football training interferes with swimming practice and the house is never tidy because fifty pairs of different sized shoes clutter the hallway. He wants a family, and he wants a wife, and if he's learned anything since the hostage situation, it's that to get these things out of his life he's going to have to push her.

When he realises he's missed his chance he almost considers flying back to England, with only Leo stopping his escape.

By the time they do leave (it causes him copious amounts of relief that she _is_ leaving South Africa, at least for now) it seems so long since he saw her he can hardly breathe.

"Didn't I used to know you?" he quips, as she trundles towards the car.

She smiles softly at him, and he notices the strained stance and the beginnings of tears. She collapses into the back and refuses to look at the hotel until Harry's arm slowly, casually, and he hopes subtly, slips around her shoulder. She chuckles lightly.

"What do you want?" she asks, and he merely shrugs.

"Hard to say goodbye to Anton?" he asks, gesturing to her tears. She stares at him so long that he can hardly figure out where he went wrong.

"It was hard, horrible actually, but most break ups are, aren't they?"

"You broke up with him?" and it comes out quicker than intended.

"He wasn't exactly truthful, and I didn't exactly love him. Not the best way to start off a doomed relationship, don't you think?"

Harry remains quiet the entire ride to the airport, and as Nikki's head slips to his shoulder, he remembers the noise, the clutter and the laughter of children, and smiles gently.

On the plane ride home, whilst Leo snoozes contently by the window, Harry once more finds himself with Nikki's head against his shoulder.

"Tell me a story?" she asks quietly.

He sighs dramatically before nodding his consent. "Baby Harry, University Harry or old Harry?" he asks sarcastically, and Nikki can't help but giggle.

"I want a special one," she replies finally, and gripes his hand tight.

"Do you remember a long time ago you told me a story about a girl you met?"

It takes him a moment to realise, but when he does the butterflies increase tenfold.

"The one who kept invading my desk, you mean?" he asks casually. She nods softly against him, and squeezes his hand.

"What did you say about her?" she finally whispers, and Harry feels all the past, present and future collide.

He leans close to her ear and breathes quietly, watches her a moment as her eyes flutter closed and she smiles nervously. When he speaks his answer she sighs, and snuggles close to his shoulder.

"I said," he whispers finally, "That I want you."

---

Weeks later he takes her to a beach down south, threatens to strip off completely, and gets as far as taking his jumper off before she's doubled over with laughter, spinning and twirling in the freezing wind.

He hasn't even kissed her yet, though he's sure he'll marry her.

That afternoon (because there was a reason for this trip, he reminds her) they wind up in a small cemetery, and she grips his hand tighter, wandering around in confusion, before reminding him that she associates with the dead enough already, and would very much like to rejoin the living.

He chuckles quietly and tugs her towards a spot in the shade. It is over grown, the headstone covered in vines and branches, and Harry explains that the family of this man never lived here, they merely visited each year and it's where he had requested burial.

Slowly he pulls back the shrubbery, and Nikki feels her breath catch at the sight of the Cunningham name.

As Harry steps back she wraps both arms round his torso, hugging him tightly through three layers of clothing.

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly. "Not just for sharing this with me, but for always being there, and always indulging my curiosity."

He chuckles softly and hugs her close.

That night he doesn't even think to take her home, instead pulls up outside his apartment and they both trundle, exhausted, to his door. Wine is poured, a movie is playing, and it reminds him of so many nights previous that he is determined to make this one different.

Her side is pressed to his own and his hand rests upon her thigh. Unlike last time she's wearing jeans, but as his fingertips slip down the inside she presses up quickly, whimpering as he drags her shirt up slowly. Without words she straddles his lap, pushing him down as her knees dig into his hips, his hands both running up the back of her thighs as she finally presses her lips to his.

She is soft and warm and squirming all at once, and he is completely, unequivocally, lost in her.

She breaks away, breathing heavily, and presses her lips down his cheek, giggling as he finds her collarbone.

"This is it," she murmurs, and stills a moment.

He, for one, couldn't be happier, and nods enthusiastically against her neck.

"Great story to tell the kids," he mumbles, and thinks back to a day, so very long ago, when she'd taken her bra off underneath her clothing. Somehow he's struggling to complete the same task, and she laughs gaily as he groans in frustration.

"Our kids will not be hearing this story," she quips, and has the offending garment off in seconds. He stares in perplexity a moment, after which she presses him down once more. Her kisses are hot and slack, until she slows a minute, pausing to watch him curiously.

"This is a good moment though, probably the best," she murmurs and he can't help grinning in agreement. She leans down towards him before pausing, pulling back.

"But you're telling Leo."

_Epilogue_

When Harry awakes it is to fingers batting furiously at his cheek. It is some terrible hour in the afternoon and he's fallen asleep on his day off. He blinks rapidly, wondering if it's Nikki already home, before realising the fingers are much to small and much to sticky.

"Claire bear," he growls, and suddenly the tot is lifted clear off the ground, squealing in delight as he pulls her to his chest.

He remember now, that his day off was actually to spend time with the kids, and falling asleep probably isn't the most productive means of doing so, but they're picnic in the park had taken it's toll on him and when nap time had come around, he too had fallen asleep.

"Where's your brother?" he asks the little girl, who's pigtails, he discovers, have been pulled from their ribbons. Claire's fingers, too, are terribly sticky, and he dreads to think what she's been up to whilst he's slept.

She points upstairs, bouncing lightly, and he stands with her in his arms to wander around the house. He finds Ellie, his eldest, colouring fairy pictures in her bedroom. She has Nikki's grin, and smiles at him as he wanders past.

Claire and Jack, the twins, are 19 months old, and Harry finally finds his only son pushing toy cars around a mat in the playroom. The little boys face lights up when daddy enters, and he pushes the cars away to attach himself to Harry's jeans. He settles Claire on the floor and swings Jack around, listens to laughter and giggles, screams for more and more, and can't imagine a world without these children. Ellie, too, hears the commotion and comes clambering in, the three and a half year old soon joining in the fun.

Hours later, when Nikki returns home, she enters a quiet household, and immediately is suspicious.

"Harry?" she calls loudly, and listens for her husbands answer. There is the faint sound of giggles, and finally his voice, slightly strained, which is never a good sign.

When Nikki enters the nursery, however, she is treated to the sight of Harry and Jack playing tea parties, Claire wearing her fairy wings whilst Ellie pours imaginary tea and gives out biscuits to her stuffed animals and family.

She isn't noticed, for a moment, and watches in wonder as the four of them interact. Jack, slightly disgruntled, curled in his fathers lap; Claire dancing happily to the music and Ellie making sure each stuffed animal has a seat.

Nikki bounds into the room quickly, picking Claire up to press a kiss to her cheek before taking a tiny chair at the table by Harry. He seems immensely glad to see her, as is Jack who clambers onto her lap beside Claire, both children momentarily fighting for a knee, before Harry leans across to kiss her.

"I'm the special guest, apparently," he informs her, smiling knowingly as she giggles.

"Where's daddy's fairy wings?" she asks, turning to Ellie who gasps in surprise. The little girl runs towards the dress up box, rummaging around, finally stopping to proudly present her father with a pair of blue wings.

"You're the king fairy daddy," she informs him, leaning close to pat his cheek. She grins cheekily, and he's reminded of each moment his wife has done the same.

Like now, he realises, as the kids return to their party.

"You know if I'd known I'd have to put up with this much abuse, I never would have married you," he quips, and tugs her, instead of Jack, onto his lap. There is a myriad of squeals and noises from the kids as they shuffle around their parents, but he can't bring himself to respond, instead he leans down and kisses her quietly, delighting in her smile.

"This isn't abuse," she murmurs in response, and smiles as Claire snuggles to her father's side.

"What is it then?" he asks, crinkling his brow in mock confusion. He glances down and runs a hand gently through Claire's blonde locks.

Nikki giggles softly, delighting in her own joke, and when she speaks Harry can only groan knowingly.

'This is you being liked."


End file.
